The Show Must Go On
by Wyndi
Summary: Jeff Hardy has many regrets about leaving the WWE and ponders just how much he's lost.


Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, implied incest, language, drug references, angst.  
  
Character/s: Jeff Hardy, mentions of Shane McMahon, Chris Jericho, Matt Hardy, Rob Van Dam, and Vince McMahon.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by "The Show Must Go On" by Queen (please look up the lyrics if you are unfamiliar with them). Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
* * *  
  
Change can be a very frightening thing, even when it's something you've seen coming for a long time. You'd think I'd know by now what it is I'm looking for, what it is I need to make me happy. Well, guess what? Beneath the quirky smile, the painted skin, and the rainbow hair, I'm still a scared little country boy experiencing the big city for the very first time.  
  
Everyone not 'in the know' seems to have the same question for me. Why? Why am I no longer with the company? Was it the tardiness? The blown spots? The lackluster performance?  
  
All of the above and more. So much more.  
  
I guess the beginning of the end was Matt leaving for Smackdown. You think I don't know the shit that was said about us? The rumors that were circulating in the locker rooms, the cartoons 'accidentally' left out for either of us to find? Oh yeah, it got to me. Every damn bit of it. Never mind that none of it was true. But that's what comes from having your brother for a best friend. Fucking perverts. Someone's always gotta assume the worst.  
  
The worst. I don't even wanna think about it, but I keep replaying it in my mind. How could I not?  
  
The worst was the look. The shock. The disdain. The scorn. The complete and utter disgust I saw in Chris' eyes the day he walked in on me in the bathroom and busted me. Oh sure, he knew I was smoking out with Rob in the locker room. He didn't care. Hell, he even joined us a time or two. But I knew he'd have serious objections if he ever knew about the harder shit. Which is why I generally waited until I knew he was in the ring before I'd spike my vein. But he saw, he knew, and he left. Didn't say a word. Just walked out the door.  
  
The only person I've ever truly loved.  
  
I blame Shane. Until my dying breath, I'll hate him and blame him and curse his name for ever tempting me to go beyond pot. He was the measuring stick. The one I'd always compare myself to, subconsciously or not. I felt like I couldn't ever back down from any challenge he presented. No matter what he did, I had to one-up him. In any way possible.  
  
But that fine, white powder he introduced me to... It takes a hold of your brain, wraps itself around you like a warm, comfortable blanket, convinces you that you're so much more than you ever dreamed, so much better than you ever thought you were worth. It encourages you to take risks you'd never even imagine you could survive, let alone build a career around. Hell, look who I learned from? The original daredevil himself, inducting a new member into his own private Hell. Notice who hasn't had any real TV time in two years. And look who stepped so easily into the void he left and went down the exact same path.  
  
Please tell me nobody's surprised by that little turn of events.  
  
And here everyone just thought I was a reckless kid, indestructible, willing to perform all the death-defying stunts that 'normal' people would shy away from. And boy, did it make money for the company. And I think that's the only reason I got away with being a fuck up for as long as I did. Sure, everyone knew there was SOMETHING wrong. It was just that nobody knew exactly WHAT the problem was. Until it was too late, that is.  
  
Until the day that Chris busted me. And it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd just been able to discuss it with me rationally, you know? Like any other 'marital' difficulty. But no, he had to go running straight to Vince. Because it was 'for my own good.'  
  
You'd think true love counted for more than that.  
  
And I was so pissed at Shane, at Chris, at Vince, I didn't even want to consider the option of rehab. I got the same fucking lecture from Vince that he probably gave Shane before he got pulled from the shows. The same 'fatherly' advice. The same condescending bullshit.  
  
How could I tell any of them that the thought of stepping into the ring without my crutch was far more terrifying than admitting that I had a problem? No, it was far simpler just to tell them all to fuck off, I'd take my ball and go home, and to hell with all of them.  
  
But I miss my smart-mouthed Canadian. My God, how I miss him. These days I don't go to the shows, I don't hang around the arenas. But I watch. Every Monday like clockwork, I'm glued to the television screen. Wondering if I'll ever be able to watch him without feeling my heart breaking all over again.  
  
Now my days are spent working on art projects, caring for my animals, or writing music. And wishing things had worked out differently. I fucked that all to hell, though. No chance of fixing what's broken. Some things can't be forgiven, I guess.  
  
So much for true love.  
  
Even if I were able to clean up, I couldn't go back. Not now. Not when everyone knows. I didn't mind being thought of as a freak. That was a word I was always comfortable with. It's that other word I can't bear to hear, especially from his lips.  
  
Failure. 


End file.
